When Jaws premiered in 1975, it terrified audiences not just with the unseen menace lurking beneath the water—but with how powerless people were to stop it. Part of that helplessness stemmed from a now-almost-unrecognizable lack of modern technology. Watching Jaws today is like peering into a different world—one where communication was slow, information was limited, and bureaucratic stubbornness could actually stall a life-or-death response for days.

The absence of tech didn’t just reflect the time—it amplified the fear.

Cut Off and On Your Own

One of the most striking differences is the complete lack of cell phones. Chief Brody’s only line to the mainland is a clunky landline in the police station, and when he’s on the Orca with Quint and Hooper, there’s no satellite backup or emergency radio worth relying on, and certainly no phone. The sense of isolation is palpable—and intentional. Once they’re out at sea, they are cut off from the world, left to face the shark with little more than barrels, a rifle and pistol, and raw determination.

Compare this to modern rescue operations where helicopters, GPS, and encrypted radios coordinate responses in real time. In Jaws, when the Orca’s radio is destroyed, it’s not a minor setback—it’s a death sentence.

Pre-Internet Panic

There’s no internet, no Google, and certainly no Shark Tracker app. Brody doesn’t even know what a Great White is until he flips through a few outdated books at the dinner table. The town of Amity operates in a knowledge vacuum—dependent on anecdotal reports, town meetings, and local fishermen. That lack of accurate data allows denial and misinformation to flourish. The mayor’s decision to keep the beaches open isn’t just about money—it’s about not understanding the scope of the threat.

In today's world, a shark attack in a small town would be viral within minutes. Scientists would weigh in, surveillance drones would buzz the shoreline, and local news would be in a frenzy. In 1975 Amity, it’s easier to pretend the problem isn’t real.

If You Didn’t Snap It, Did It Happen?

Today, we live in a world saturated by images—everyone carries a high-resolution camera in their pocket. But in Jaws, the hunt for photographic proof is almost as intense as the hunt for the shark itself. Hooper brings along a cumbersome underwater camera in hopes of capturing evidence, and even then, it’s a roll of film, not a digital memory card. There's no instant review, no burst shots, no uploading to the cloud. If the shark doesn’t appear in the frame—or the camera floods—that evidence is gone.

The lack of instant photography builds tension in subtle ways. Eyewitness reports are met with skepticism because no one can prove what they saw. This contributes to the town's inaction and the public’s complacency. In a digital age, one image of a dorsal fin could shut down the beaches. In 1975, unless someone was holding a developed photo in hand, it didn’t happen.

The technological gap also means that moments of horror—like discovering Ben Gardner’s boat—are captured not with a photo, but with raw memory. That infamous jump scare, when Gardner’s severed head floats into view, lingers with the viewer precisely because it isn’t sanitized or documented. It’s seen and felt in the moment—just as it would’ve been in real life.

Analog Suspense

Perhaps most charming—and chilling—is how analog everything is. There are no CCTV cameras watching the beaches. No sonar imaging. The shark isn’t caught on film until it’s practically on top of you. Even the famous yellow barrels used to track the shark’s movement are an improvised solution—crude, visual, and wholly dependent on line-of-sight. It all adds to the tension. There’s no digital safety net. When someone goes into the water, they’re alone in a very literal way.

Quint’s Low-Tech War

Quint’s boat, the Orca, is the ultimate symbol of low-tech grit. His tools are harpoons, cleats, and knots. His knowledge is all muscle memory and sea-worn instinct. It’s hard to imagine a modern marine biologist agreeing to chase a rogue shark without sonar, radio backup, or a functioning engine. But that’s exactly what makes the final act of Jaws so riveting—man versus beast, with barely a spool of line between them.

The Timelessness of Terror

Ironically, it’s because of this technological absence that Jaws remains timeless. Strip away the gadgets, and the core human fears—of the unknown, of nature, of not being believed—rise to the surface. The lack of tech makes the danger feel immediate, inescapable, and organic. It’s the same reason horror movies set in the past often hit harder. Fear thrives in isolation.

Closing Bite

Watching Jaws today is a reminder of how far technology has come—and how little it matters when primal terror takes hold. There are no smartphones in Amity. No Wi-Fi. No warning. Just a dorsal fin, some yellow barrels, and the unmistakable soundtrack of danger rising from below.

Shark attacks evoke primal fear. The sudden violence, the mystery beneath the surface, the idea of a predator striking from the deep—it’s the stuff of nightmares. But it’s also real life for hundreds of people across history, and this distinction matters.

In Shadow Below: Extraordinary Shark Attacks, I set out to document real events—not to thrill or terrify, but to inform. The truth of a fatal shark attack is far more gripping than any fictional account. As I pored over firsthand accounts, coroner’s reports, newspaper archives, and interviews, one truth became clear: the line between respectful reporting and sensationalism is thin, and too often crossed.

We live in an age where headlines scream, “Shark mauls swimmer in blood-soaked frenzy!” But those words tell us nothing of value. They strip away nuance, disrespect the victim, and reduce a tragic event to clickbait. Worse, they perpetuate myths that fuel fear and impede conservation.

Avoiding sensationalism doesn't mean downplaying the violence of a shark attack. These fatal events are categorically brutal and deserve serious treatment. But it does mean resisting exaggeration. It means grounding each account in verified facts. It means acknowledging what we don’t know just as much as what we do.

It also means honoring the human being at the center of every story.

By presenting these incidents as carefully researched case studies, I aim to offer something lasting—historical truth, not spectacle. For every reader who opens Shadow Below, I hope two truths become clear:

• Sharks are not monsters

• Victims should never be fodder for dramatic headlines or clickbait